


p.p.s. i love u

by kyu (dazaicat)



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - No Ice Skating, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-06
Updated: 2017-12-12
Packaged: 2019-01-30 06:49:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12648336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dazaicat/pseuds/kyu
Summary: based on a tumblr post;35 ways you said 'i love you.'





	1. as a hello

**Author's Note:**

> [insp.](http://trash-by-vouge.tumblr.com/post/132858041745/the-way-you-said-i-love-you)  
>   
> 
> instead of working on fish fic, which ive kicked under the rug and refuse to look at, have a collection of unrelated, au & largely pointless jjbek confessions!!

The leaves crunch underfoot when he crosses campus—it's an autumn thing, the crunch and the accompanying misery, the vague ominous weight of exams in the months to come; like rain clouds when it's far too early for an umbrella. He shivers and pulls at the zipper of his parka reflexively.

He's _good,_ he knows he is, but times like these, when everyone's expectations retreat and he's left to his own devices—that's when he always feels his lowest. And then they'll come back full force, and he'll have to measure up, somehow, _somehow,_ though he's already wasting another hour coming here in the first place.

When he pulls the frosted fake-glass door open, the chime startles him into a momentary panic. What if he's—wrong, somehow, out of place? What if it's the wrong shift, or even the wrong time to be in this café? What if no one even wants him here? What if in the five hours since they've last seen each other, his boyfriend changed his mind? The familiar smell of buttery dough and roasted coffee hits him so hard he's almost nauseous. He hasn't even eaten.

Letting go of the handle is an ordeal. Facing the counter and pulling down his collar to free his face is another one. But for _this_ , he manages.

Otabek is at the counter, thankfully. Jean breathes out something he didn't notice was still trapped in his lungs. Otabek is at the counter; apron in place over a white T-shirt, spotless. Earbuds snaking up from his pocket, technically against regulations but harmless where they rest against his collarbones. Otabek is looking at him, eyes calm and face serene, and Jean absolutely must _must **must**_ tell him—

"I love you," he says as he almost trips up to the counter in his haste.

"Hello to you too." Otabek's tone is dry, but there's an obvious smile tugging up one corner of his mouth and softening his eyes. It's a smile special to _Jean_ —Otabek looks at no one else like that, besides his cat.

"Hi," he says back, to be polite, and Otabek's eyebrows do that scrunchy thing they do when he's trying to figure out something.

"You're shivering," he remarks finally. The scrunchy eyebrows take on a frowny tone.

"It's autumn! T'was cold outside."

Otabek rolls his eyes, but the frowny eyebrows retreat and he pushes the little barrier in the counter to the side. He gestures for Jean to come behind. "C'mere," with a solid warm palm to Jean's upper back. And then quietly huffy, but entirely fond: " _Dumbass._ "

For that, Jean buries his cold nose directly into Otabek's neck. "Am _not_."

"Of course not," Otabek agrees absently as he digs around in the staff refrigerator with one hand and tries to shove Jean off his shoulder with the other. Jean holds on with all the strength of a lovelorn octopus, so eventually Otabek has to concede and prepare cocoa one-handed. Jean's nose rapidly warms.

"You're like a vampire," Otabek suddenly says. "Only you drink warmth instead of blood. With your nose."

"The hell," Jean snorts. Then, a brilliant idea: "Hey, you into vampires?" He bravely attempts to bite at Otabek's nose to illustrate his point.

Otabek leans back to save his nose and gives Jean the flattest look possible. "No," and Jean can almost _feel_ the autumn-sadness rear up from where he chased it behind his ribs, "but I'm into _you_."

It's ridiculous, how much four cheesy words can do for his roller-coaster mood. "Mmhm?" he manages, in his best obnoxiously teasing tone, and Otabek just turns back to the cocoa.

"Does it count?"

"Maybe it _will_ , once I drink your blood—"

Otabek rudely interrupts with a mug of cocoa held directly underneath Jean's nose, so he takes it to avoid it steaming up his nostrils.

"Drink this instead, Dracula."

"Shouldn't you get back?" Jean murmurs petulantly into the milk-foam swirls and watches Otabek lean back to watch him.

Otabek's shrug in response pulls at the neck of the T-shirt in ways that Jean finds suddenly fascinating. "Nah. Not many people come in at this time."

"You're so lucky you have me, then."

" _Lucky_ ," Otabek snorts, but doesn't disagree.

"My boyfriend's career is of—" he blows on his cocoa, pointedly, for emphasis—" _utmost_ importance to me, Otabek. Go forth."

Otabek doesn't _go forth._ He crosses his arms, and observes with infinite patience as Jean drinks. Then he blinks once, very slowly. "Shift ends at 7. Plans?"

"Oh, depends. You have any more of those, what's 'em called—"

Otabek _tsks_ immediately, but to Jean's glee, opens the staff refrigerator again. He gets out a carefully folded cardboard box and Jean promptly forgets his half-filled mug on the counter in favour of shameless grabby hands. "My boyfriend—a god among men. The absolute best," Otabek makes a patented Unimpressed Face, but Jean can tell he's pleased. "So here's the plan. I sit here, I eat this box, I wait for your shift to be over. Then we go home, and—"

"Don't say it," Otabek warns, fingers pressed to his nose bridge. "…But yes. Okay."

"Score," Jean says, and stuffs the first maple cream pastry into his mouth. Otabek looks like he's about to leave, so he scrambles off the counter and hugs the box to his chest. "Kiss?"

Otabek keeps walking, so Jean powers on. "Okay, uh, _two_ kiss?"

Otabek turns around, trying very hard to look annoyed but only succeeding in a vague pout, which Jean reflexively grins at.

"I don't like maple," Otabek issues as token protest.

"A horror," Jean says, mock-serious, and pecks Otabek twice in rapid succession. "There. No maple."

"Ugh," Otabek says, and pecks him back. "Warm up. We'll go home soon." They're both reluctant to draw back, but eventually Otabek steps back with a sigh and Jean eyes his abandoned cup.

"Love you too," Otabek says, once he's in already the doorway. "By the way."

Jean blows him a kiss, trying not to shower crumbs everywhere.


	2. with a hoarse voice, under the blankets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this had the potential to be such cute fluff….such. cute. fluff. however; i've just read an apocalypse fic so fuck u and also major character death 
> 
> soundtrack: [a simple motion - t.a.t.u](https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/tatu/asimplemotion.html)
> 
> (does it still count as 'blankets' if there's only one blanket?)

Ever since he was young, he's had his fair share of advice drizzled liberally over him like honey over pancakes. _Don't follow strangers into shady white vans; don't eat crayons._ Then the blast happened, and both white vans and crayons became a relic of the past. He'd eat a crayon now, maybe. The advice never really stopped; it just became a lot more threatening, _fuck off before I blow your face off_ and _move and I'll pull the trigger, kid, don't think I won't_. Like anyone would waste precious ammo on him. _Please_.

Still, good to know that a worldwide apocalyptic-type explosion didn't dull his endless cheer. It's a bitter thing, being happy in the middle of the mass grave of a better age, but at least it's better than being _sad_ in the middle of the mass grave of a better age; and it has the side effect of having people recoil from his grin, thinking he's insane or something. Always useful.

He doesn't think he's crazy. Not yet. If anything, he's _charming_.

He tells Otabek that.

Otabek hums, attention fixed firmly on where he's rigging up makeshift explosives to the entrance of their little cave. Jean doesn't think he was actually listening, so he whispers it to himself. _Fucking charming._ He has to be, if Otabek still sticks around. _Will_ Otabek stick around? His good mood suddenly evaporates and he whispers, louder, but not loud enough to be heard because he's somewhat afraid of the answer. _Will you?_

"What was that?" Otabek says, now facing him and furrowing his brow in vague concern.

_Nothing,_ Jean whispers, but he was never very good at keeping things from Otabek. Or maybe Otabek was always way too good at reading people. He had to be, too, to not have killed Jean the time they first met; where most people saw an insane, desperate bastard after their food supply, Otabek saw a mildly annoying bastard desperate for some kind of socialization. Seeing Otabek roll his eyes and lower the gun was a blow to his ego, sure, but he didn't want a fight then—and he doesn't want one now. He doesn't really know what he wants.

Though that's lies; he knows _exactly_ what he wants and what he wants is currently crouched on the dirty rock, twisting fraying wires together into neat loops.

Otabek twists the little rubber cap into place over the exposed ends and neatly pulls himself out of a crouch and onto his feet. Jean is again struck by how fluidly he moves—movements precise, clean, a human switchblade that has lodged itself somewhere deep inside Jean's chest cavity. Otabek surveys his work, dark eyes taking in the complicated tangle of metal; he seems satisfied. _God, I wish that were me_ , Jean thinks, even if he doesn't know if he could handle Otabek looking at him with such satisfaction. Or Otabek's hands on him, so steady and quick and deadly— _shit_ , Jean thinks, _shit_ , closing his eyes against the strain of keeping his wants under his tongue where they belong.

A quiet noise escapes him anyway. He must be _really_ fucking sick, then. The sound draws a full-body twitch out of Otabek, who turns on Jean immediately. His frown is back, replacing that satisfied look, and Jean almost whimpers again. Almost, _almost_ , teeth digging hard into his lip and—

"Hey," Otabek says, brushing Jean's hair off his forehead in a single neat flick of his hand that also lets him check Jean's temperature. "Hey. Jean. Talk to me."

Jean snorts, but obligingly opens his eyes. "'M I charming?" He knows he's being obnoxious, but it's the only way he can think of to keep Otabek's dark all-seeing eyes away. _Keep your fucking hands to yourself,_ he adds in his mind, when Otabek's hand lingers on his temple. _Don't don't don't, keep touching me forever,_ his heart weighs in.

Predictably, Otabek looks annoyed at the random deflection. Jean almost thinks his farce is a success, but then he chokes on his next breath and starts coughing, deep and painful and _wet,_ and when he stops he hears Otabek's sharp intake of breath and subsequent hiss.

Then he looks down, seeing fresh crimson stain his fist, and his own sharp intake of breath sends him into another coughing fit.

"Fuck," Otabek says eloquently, looking the closest thing to terrified Jean's ever seen him. "Fuck. Okay. I'll go get some water, see what meds we have left, shit, don't die on me."

Jean is too focused on hacking his lungs up to either agree or argue.

Otabek, a quiet, hyperfocused storm, dithers for a moment before finally letting go of Jean's jaw. He looks back, twice, eyes flicking back to Jean like he can't help it, even as he rummages through the huge backpack he always keeps on him. Jean tries to look less pitiful.

He'd hide under the blanket, a scratchy woolen thing they share among themselves—one of Jean's few contributions to the whole _thing_ they have—but he's not sure if what he has is contagious, and doesn't want to stain their only blanket with his own blood. Otabek might throw it out, then; and what will be left of Jean? Nothing, besides some memories of him annoying Otabek.

"Hey," Otabek says again, tapping Jean's cheek sharply with two fingers. "Stay with me."

He pulls Jean's head up a little, hand curling over his nape, and tips a canteen of water past his lips. The water is still fresh, a little cold from being underground for so long, and it's the best thing Jean has tasted in _days_ —"Stop," he coughs weakly, "that's enough."

"Drink, dumbass, you're not dying on me," Otabek says. His voice is as hard and steady as the walls of the cave, even when he shakes out two pills onto his palm and pushes them under Jean's tongue. His hands don't shake, not like Jean's do. Otabek's hands never shake.

"Bek," Jean begins after he's already swallowed the pills. Otabek's hand on his nape has started rubbing soothing circles, thumb right under Jean's ear, and Jean doesn't _understand_ why someone as good at surviving as Otabek still sticks around, still _touches_ him. He wants, very badly, to understand.

"Don't," Otabek says softly. "Don't say it. We'll reach town tomorrow, I'll get you whatever you need, just hang in there."

Jean wants to laugh, but his throat is still hoarse from all the coughing.

···

He comes to with his face smushed in something soft and prickly. The world sways in measured beats, and he blinks hard to try and keep the nausea back.

The soft and prickly thing, he finds out, is Otabek's hair. He's curled somehow into Otabek's chest, face pressed into his neck, the rest of his body presumably held up by Otabek's arms. There's also a wheezing noise, but after a while he realizes that it's _him_ doing the wheezing.

Otabek seems to realize he's awake, because he shifts Jean's weight a little and turns his head. "About an hour more," he says quietly, in between footsteps. "Sleep."

The town was at least four hours away, by foot. Has Otabek walked this long? Jean begins to protest, tries to snake out of Otabek's grip, but Otabek just holds him tighter and pats his back sharply.

At some point, Jean gives in.

···

He comes to, again, to the sound of raised voices. Otabek is arguing with someone. At least, that's what Jean gathers. He turns, whole body protesting, to see what's going on.

"Kid, we can't afford to waste medicine on someone who won't make the week," a woman is growling in Otabek's face, three parts frustrated and one part sympathetic. "I'll give you some painkillers, but that's it."

Otabek snarls. Jean doesn't hear that tone from him often, and the shiver it sends down his spine must be visible, somehow, because both of them glance over at him before stepping away and lowering their voices.

"I don't care. It's my money, if I can afford it then—"

"Take it or leave it," she says, voice grim. "Don't waste my time."

The last thing Jean sees is her face, pale, as Otabek grips her by the collar and drags her closer with a switchblade pressed against her neck.

···

He wakes under the scratchy blanket again. There is a hand in his hair; a soothing, repetitive motion he wants to curl into and get lost in. His lungs burn.

Otabek hovers above him, the first thing he sees when he opens his eyes. The second thing he sees is a small metal basin half-filled with blood right next to his head. The heavy-sweet smell of copper almost makes him throw up. A gentle hand glides a damp cloth across his cheek and lips, wiping the stickiness away, and Jean forces himself to speak.

"The woman. Is she—?"

"Alive," Otabek says, curt. "How're you feeling?"

Jean closes his eyes, breathes, tries to find some of that endless cheer he always carries with him. His words still come out weak and unconvincing. "Peachy."

"Jean," Otabek says. "Seriously."

"Will I die soon?" he asks, as seriously as he can manage.

"Not if I can help it." So stubborn, so stubborn. Jean wasn't ever as good at surviving as Otabek, so he doesn't know why Otabek sounds so sure.

He shifts a little so the scratchy blanket is over his nose. It muffles the words, but he figures that he has little left to lose.

"I love you, Bek," he says, as clearly as he can with a voice that sounds like he ate nothing but gravel for a week. He yawns and lets his eyes slide closed. "Really."

Otabek's hand freezes in his hair. Jean thinks he can feel his fingertips tremble, before Otabek lets out his breath in an angry, urgent hiss.

"Don't say that. Don't say that like you'll—"

"—Die? M'yeah. Still love you."

"Don't—"

"For a long time, too," Jean says, suddenly tired. "I knew. Did you?"

He doesn’t know if he's making sense. Hopefully, Otabek can fill in the blanks. Jean thinks he does, because Otabek's shoulders drop like someone just cut his strings and he presses his forehead to Jean's fever-damp one.

His eyes are _so close_ Jean can count all of his eyelashes even with Otabek's eyes squeezed shut.

"Jean," he whispers, ragged, and then there are hot droplets sliding down Jean's neck. He holds Otabek close best as he can and feels him shake.

"I know," he whispers into Otabek's hair, without specifying _what_ he now knows. "I know."

The heavy sleepiness pulls at him from behind his closed eyelids. He fights it as long as he can; listens to Otabek cry and listens to Otabek breathe and listens to the vague buzz that seems to lurk at the edges of his consciousness.

Eventually it creeps up on him and engulfs him like a wave. He sleeps.

···

He doesn't wake again.


	3. a scream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> concept: au!! otabek has to give up skating & thus instead of learning to chase his dreams, learns to not give in to the things he wants

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *puts this fic between my teeth* it's a metaphor

All his life, Otabek has lived with the distinct feeling that you could map out everything there is to know about him thus—plot every single time he's wanted something he couldn't have, connect the dots. Shade with some appropriate blues and reds and yellows, and there it is: 19 years of boy turned man, a sizeable part of it _denial._  
  
First there was skating. No, actually—first there was _ice cream,_ and an unfortunate allergy to dairy, but you'd figure that once he took the _cream_ part out of the equation he'd he left with something workable. Turns out, the universe heard that and said _maybe so_ ; and gave him a lovely expanse of freshly-frozen ice as offering. He took to it like a bird taking off a cliff for the first time—exhilarated, shivering with the sudden _freedom_ of it all.  
  
Then the universe said _fuck you and your hobbies and also go to America, you wanted **freedom** , right?_ So he went to America, and took some ice with him in his heart. It all went well; sharp prickle of _want_ tucked away duly behind ribs, point plotted, line drawn in steady hand towards the future. A shaky, newborn future in a country that might as well have been freshly-frozen ice under Otabek's careful steps—lean on it too hard, and the easy acceptance of his new acquaintances would crack and reveal something deep and cold and ugly.  
  
Then the universe said _I pity you, you lonely bastard,_ and dumped an entire star, righteous fire and sea-green eyes and all, directly in Otabek's lap.  
  
So second in the series of Good-Things-Otabek-Could-Have-Had-But-Didn't-In-The-End-Because-Life-Is-A Bitch-That-Way—or _third,_ if you're counting the entire milk incident—there was Yura. _Yura,_ a multitude of sparks nipping at Otabek's fingers and so very _right_ in so many ways, star-crossed and teeth bared in a snarl-grin even as he melted every single part of Otabek away—merciless—how could Otabek _not_ want him? Any part of him? So, naturally, the universe stepped in to remind him that _no touchy touchy, stars belong in the sky to be admired but never actually **reached** , even if they're the brightest in your constellation_, and Otabek had to let that one hope go, too.  
  
You'd think that by then, Otabek would have caught the gist of it. And when the universe reached its cat-paws down from the endless abyss above, same paws that dumped Yura's spitfire glory into his life, and said _you know what you need, boy? A nemesis_ , he should have been prepared for everything to come and its inevitable end.  
  
Too bad that he _was._  


···

When the universe dragged the actual literal _sun_ down and left it at Otabek's doorstep like some kind of macabre dead-mouse offering, he was fully prepared to have none of his wants realized.

When the sun _grinned_ and shot double finger guns his way, light glinting off a perfect smile and eyes like the molten core of planets, Otabek told himself: _no, not **again** you don't_. When the sun draped itself over his shoulders, lean muscle burning even through Otabek's then-signature leather jacket, too familiar and too bright and too _much_ , he told himself: _you can't have anything more, so enjoy it for what it is._

He doesn't push.

Doesn't let himself smile back no matter how hard Jean tries; sees the light behind those eyes flicker and dim just the tiniest bit each time, and thinks— _good._ His nerves feel scrubbed raw after Yura anyway, an endless sunburn that leaves him sensitive to every single brush of tanned fingers down his arm and every press of shoulder to his own; the reduced intensity is _good,_ he tells himself. Let this flame burn out too as is its inevitable end.

If Otabek's _golden_ , true to his name, then Jean is a _king_ ; a greedy one, too, always asking for more with those hungry eyes, but—Otabek won't let himself be devoured. He's worth more than some trophy to fill a kingdom's coffers, worth more than the longing ache behind his ribs where the slivers of ice he's managed to save dig into his lungs and turn his breaths to mist.

He doesn't let a single drop of molten gold fall even with Jean's desert-sand breath blasting over his cheek—wills himself to resist temptation even as it trails sure fingers over the pulse in his wrist and tucks under his collar to trace scorched paths down the unmarked expanse of his collarbones. Jean watches with those solar-flare eyes; Otabek meets them dead-on, and then lets himself be the first one to turn away for once.

The temptation is still an ever-present heat at the back of his neck and in the small of his back, but he makes do.

···

At least, he makes do for as long as humanely possible. The whole affair feels a lot like sitting on his ass in hot desert sand— _god_ , he misses the ice even now—and staring down an oasis right _there_ , so _close,_ even if he knows better by now than to trust anything cool and blue and shiny.

Long story short? Otabek strongly suspects that the ever-present lust licking at his windpipe and scorching his throat dry has fucked up his thinking, somehow, irreparably damaged some part of his brain responsible for not making stupid mistakes.

Two years; twelve months of adult life, plus twelve months of sleepless caffeinated nights, and Otabek is _done_ resisting. Six years with Yura should have made it _nothing_ —child's play—but Otabek is neither a child nor patient anymore. The hunger in Jean's gaze never faded, merely relocated itself somewhere deeper and closer to Jean's core.

Something, somewhere, finally stretches too thin and snaps.

Mentally, desert-Otabek staggers to his feet; physically, present-Otabek grips the white cotton above the toned chest of his best friend, mid-cocky exclamation, and _hauls_ him in. Desert-Otabek puts his lips to the mirror-smooth cool surface of the water and _drinks_ ; present-Otabek licks into Jean's mouth, _finally, finally_ , and inhales the entire sea in one sitting before someone can take it away again.

Then the sea lets out a deep groan and engulfs him whole, crashing against every single shore he's mapped out in himself and then some, flooding places he didn’t know he had but now knows were _aching_ for this all along, and desert-Otabek drowns. 

···

He doesn't know how they made it back to their shared apartment. Briefly spares an amused thought to the idea of the cat-whiskers of the universe, pushing him along, and then urgency takes over again. It's not a fire he can put out, anymore; the blaze between them puts the crush he's had on Yura to shame and also into blunt perspective. _That_ , embers— _this,_ an inferno.

If he listens close, he can even feel its roar rumble through Jean's chest when he catches him against the wall of their tiny hallway and _pushes_. When he shoves harder, fitting himself to the space between Jean's thighs, he hears the _hiss_ like mist going up in flame; their breaths mingle, frenzied and damp and Otabek has long since lost track of which parts of himself are burning alive and which parts are drowning.

Then Jean licks his lips and lets his head fall back, eyes cat-lazy and intense even as Otabek's drift to the column of his throat—he's thought that Jean would be out to _conquer_ , and suddenly his knees are too weak to hold him up at the idea of _being the conqueror,_ cupping the center of his solar system in his palms and sinking his _teeth_ into it, and Otabek _falls_ ; forward and down, a whine clawing its way up his throat.

Jean laughs at that, all bright and happy and expectant, and it's impossibly light—sunshine, molten caramel, trickling down Otabek's back and dripping from his hair into his eyes.

"Touch me," Otabek says, warm breath ghosting over Jean's damp collarbone, and Jean obliges.

His fingers are a brand on Otabek's hips the moment he says the word. Ten perfect points outshining every single want he's had so far and left behind; ten brand-new stars in a constellation he's carried in his heart since as far back as he remembers—Jean digs in, holds Otabek up even as his knees melt, and kisses Otabek's nose in a surprisingly wet and cold move.

At that, Otabek looks up, past the sweat beading on Jean's upper lip and into his eyes. They _glow_ , a very simple kind of joy and very complicated kind of longing made bare for the first time—or maybe it's the first time Otabek's _looking_ , and he doesn't want to ever stop. Jean takes in a shaky breath. Otabek's eyes flicker helplessly from his eyes to his mouth and back.

"Yeah?" Jean whispers.

Otabek nods helplessly, eyes sliding shut, and tugs at Jean's shirt.  


···

They make it to the bed the same way they make it to the apartment. That is—Otabek doesn't fucking know what happened between point A and point B, but his shirt is somewhere in the vicinity of the couch and his tongue is somewhere in the vicinity of Jean's neck and he's nestled in the space between Jean's knees like a long-lost part that’s just been found and fitted back where it belongs.

Jean tastes like salt, and sun-warmed metal, and Otabek wants _wants **wants**_ so much that his hands and mouth feel too small and insignificant in the face of the unquenchable thirst raging underneath his tongue.

He licks hot trails across Jean's chest, his collarbones, his neck, and Jean doesn't push him away. Doesn't give him severe indigestion, doesn't send him to another continent, doesn't leave him for dance practice—doesn't _disappear_ on Otabek.

Instead, Jean remains infuriatingly solid and open and sure like nothing else in Otabek's life ever bothered to be, leaning back on his elbows and tipping his head back and groaning Otabek's name. Otabek waits for the cosmic shoe to drop, waits for the punchline even as he hikes up Jean's thigh around his waist, even as he thrusts down and is met by an equally desperate movement. The shoe _doesn't_ drop, and with each blissfully good second the dream lasts it becomes more solid, a mirage Otabek can _touch_ and trace with his fingertips and tongue.

It doesn't help that Jean's too beautiful to be true—always but _especially_ like this, spread out under Otabek with his crumpled shirt still tucked into the waistband of his jeans and shoulders bare. Miles and miles of warm skin, making Otabek's mouth drier than any desert ever could—than anything, ever, could—eyes soft and too-tender and hazy with something Otabek can't fully label _lust_.

"Wanted this forever, Bek," Jean whispers into the pause as Otabek stares. Two fingertips, cool on his cheek but so impossibly _gentle_ , punctuate this statement. Jean lets them rest at the hollow of his throat, eyes suddenly serious and calm as the sea.

_Forever?,_ Otabek thinks, and lowers his head down to return the gesture against Jean's lips, petal-soft and close-mouthed and as meaningful as he can make it.

Then he parts his lips and sinks back into the ocean of want they've just surfaced from, hands suddenly bruising on wrists and scrabbling at Jean's jeans and leaving red lines down Jean's side as if he can claw in any _deeper_ , any _further_ , to match Jean's hunger with his own. He doesn't have a plan, or any sort of foresight, because he's figured out early on that daydreams only make it harder on himself when nothing ever _happens the way he wants it to_ —so now he's lost, entirely and wholly, and so in love with it his lungs burn.

They don’t make it much further than that; denim hard against denim in the kind of friction that gets forests ablaze, so painful and so so good, and at some point Otabek's stopped _thinking_ it all and started whispering it into the damp air and then shouting himself hoarse, barely noticing the number of times he's managed to say _yes_ and the number of variations on Jean's name he's managed to come up with, and then—

"I love you," Jean keens too loud and directly into Otabek's ear, and that's _it_ for Otabek.

The sun swallows him whole.

He blinks the white spots away as his vision trickles back in, taking in fragments like he doesn't know what to look at first. There's Jean's heavy, satisfied gaze; there's the gentle smile curling up the edges of his mouth (that mouth; how could Otabek _ever_ have thought his grins obnoxious?) and glinting in his eyes. There's the uneven, slow rise and fall of Jean's chest, the smudge of a beginning bruise right under the spot where neck meets shoulder.

He looks, and looks, and looks, until exhausted satisfaction finally weighs at his limbs enough to send him sprawling into Jean's side. Jean accomodates immediately, body curling into his like a matching curly bracket. His hand comes up to trace Otabek's cheekbone; then to cup his jaw, gently, swipe a thumb across his lip and rest on his chin in a light grip.

"Yeah?" Jean murmurs. His voice is low, more rumble than sound.

Otabek searches for his voice, but he must have screamed it out somehow because all he feels in his throat is a raw kind of silence. So instead, he tips his head down into a nod and lets his eyes slide shut. It seems to be answer enough; he feels the answering flare of Jean's smile even with his eyes closed, warm on his cheeks, as Jean slides the hand into his hair to pet his hair in lazy motions.

"L'v you too," he sighs, nose pressed into Jean's chest. It's true; has been true and left unsaid for too long, a final wish unfulfilled for too long, leaving behind it a sense of relief. Sleepiness tugs at his soul.

And, for the third time in as many decisions, Otabek lets himself give in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Area Author Projects Own Desire To Fuck The Sun Onto Innocent Characters From Gay Ice Skating Anime

**Author's Note:**

> rest is 2 come!  
> [while u wait, look at pictures of cats n observe some memes](http://wingtae.tk/?)


End file.
